


If a brother is commanded to do impossible things

by Beanwhile



Series: A French Affair [3]
Category: The Three Musketeers (2011)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Denial of Feelings, Hand Jobs, M/M, Travel, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beanwhile/pseuds/Beanwhile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let us visit old friends, Rochefort." Richelieu laughed, because he was feeling adventurous and because he liked to think that Rochefort loved to see him laughing and smiling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If a brother is commanded to do impossible things

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, billion, billion thanks to Hereticality for beta-ing for me. <3

                The light was terrible.

It bounced off the white walls, walls intended to be cool, at best neutral, now merciless and scorching. They made the eyelids flutter in defense against the rude intrusion of so much light.

It bounced off the polished armour of the guards, making white light foxes run over the walls and floor, every now and then jumping at the eyes, blinding them temporarily.

The heat was terrible.

It got under each and every layer of clothing, stayed under, made the body slowly boil and drown in its own sweat, which in turn trickled, and poured, and made the skin itchy and then rash-red after being scratched too much.

It made his fingers sticky and useless; he smeared ink over paper and parchment alike. Time after time he reached for his gloves and then remembered how impossible was to hold a quill in velvet-clad hand. When his hands didn't shook with the sheer force of gripping the goddamned quill they trembled, tempted to satisfy the itch, to kill it actually, feel the initial pain of torn skin and bask masochistically in its glory.

                The quill screeched on the paper and slipped from his fingers, leaving terrible ink trails behind. He threw it aside with as much force as he could, entertaining the fantasy of objects feeling pain when hurt. His gloves followed the quill and their soft tap on the floor was nowhere near satisfying. But at this boiling point not even moribund shrieks would’ve satisfied him.

                He puffed in annoyance. The heat drained him of his energy, rendered him unable to relieve from stress via physical exercise, and this only added to his foul mode. Summer was his least favourite season. He hated even the refined poetry dedicated to it; frowned upon metaphors and similes making use of the season. Romanticising something did not make it more bearable.

                He browsed mindlessly the paper hill on his desk, desperate to find something to allure his mind even for a bit, to disperse the annoyance enough to make him more prepared to tackle the worst papers with adequacy. Papers... documents... letters... He was about to give up when a small, comparatively dark envelope flapped on his desk, falling on its seal and name.

                Richelieu discarded the rest of his papers on the side of the desk. Immediately they toppled and dispersed in the air. Something resembling the satisfaction of carried out revenge made him grin. He was going to collect them later. Richelieu took the envelope in his hands, bringing it closer to his eyes. He didn't immediately turn and open it, savouring the pangs of curiosity like good wine. He studied the paper – it was cheap, probably the cheapest; so cheap, in fact, that one had to actually put effort into finding paper with such bad quality. It was brownish-grey in colour; its edges were chewed, there were a few cuts where luxurious paper and somebody's nails had dug into it. It looked so miserable Richelieu wondered how on earth an envelope so miserable could possibly reach his desk.

                He turned it around and the seal, homely and with chunks missing from it, solved the mystery for him. The name and title in the corner confirmed.

_F_ _Gabriel de Sainte-Marie_ _, Archbishop_ _of Rheims_

                _Of course it was Gabriel_ , Richelieu smiled at the envelope. Who _else_ used paper so bad for his private correspondence?

                The Cardinal twirled and played with the envelope in his fingers, thinking about the irony of it. There weren't two people more different walking this Earth than him and Gabriel. Yet God, through the Mother Church, had deemed it appropriate to take them as pupils and even had them meet. Richelieu was, well, Richelieu - he was ambition incarnate, courtier and now a Minister, ruthless and purposive. He didn't shy from force when needed, did not take pride in it, truly, but did not feel shame about it either. When they had met with Gabriel Richelieu had deemed the youth meek and mild, and also naive, a fine example of a person who was born to be anything but a courtier.

                And Gabriel, Gabriel was just like an angel, graceful and kind, always putting others’ interests before his own. To use a word like “ambition” would mean to insult him and shame the word itself; he did not rose, but was rather taken and gently put on the seat of an Archbishop, and that was the least people could do to repay even a bit his kindness. He established priories and divided his money between the monks and the ordinary laymen; took in refugees and offered them a place to stay. The English Benedictine Congregation, now in exile in France, practically owed him their lives, for he provided them with shelter and food, and a place to preach in peace. When the Cardinal had met Gabriel Gifford for the first time Gabriel had immediately seen the deepest pits of Richelieu's soul, the ambition and the plans, and had said nothing, had taken him as he had been and had called him a friend. Richelieu had been impressed to say the least, and albeit not meeting often, the strangest, most gentle friendship had bloomed between them.

                Richelieu followed Gifford's life with utmost interest. It brought a smile on his face, how they covered important stepping stones on their way up, like it was a heated competition, a race between two equally good athletes. He had no doubt that Gabriel was hearing about Richelieu as well, taken that Richelieu was the offstage most important person in France.

                He tore the envelope and took out the sheet of paper of the same bad quality, only gilded with the fine handwriting of Gifford. The Archbishop was writing to inform Richelieu that his translation, the _Sermones Adventuales_ , was now finished and ready to be printed. He was going to return the original French copy to Richelieu (which would fill the gaping hole in his library, of which he had no notes of lending or giving away for good). If the Cardinal was interested, the letter went on, maybe he could visit Rheims and pick it up personally, also gracing Gifford with his company for a day or two?

The letter ended with a blessing and Gifford's signature.

                Richelieu let the sheet slip between his fingers. He propped his elbows on his desk and stretched his body backwards on the chair. The letter, and the opportunities which it presented, was coming just in time. For quite some time now Richelieu was animadverted on and pointed out as a traitor for openly joining effort with Protestants. A visit to a purely Catholic establishment would at least shut many mouths for a while. The country trusted Gifford The Preacher. Gifford was a good friend of the Cardinal, which would force the evil tongues not to slander against Richelieu, if not be friendly to his causes. And he would be away from court for a few days, which was not such a terrible thought. And, of course, he was going to obtain a good read.

                The terrible heat seemed distant and tamed all of a sudden; his heart beat wave after wave of excitement into his body, refilling him with energy, making him restless, the kind of restlessness one experienced before a good sparring match. Recklessness tempted him with sweet ideas, acts much more suiting the lives of boys and youths, and he could barely resist; nonetheless he felt determined to do something uncharacteristic of him, something surprising. He just had to decide what it will be. Leave everything and rush there? Jump on a horse and ride until the animal dropped dead and foaming at the mouth?

                A dark and unfocused smudge moved in his peripheral vision and his gaze snapped to locate the source of the movement. It was Rochefort, back straight and pose stoic as usual, his face betraying nothing; the wind from outside was ruffling the feathers of his hat, which had probably piqued Richelieu’s interest in the movement he had noticed.

                A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as his gaze met Rochefort's eye, unflinching and seemingly blank. Dear Rochefort, sweet, _sweet_ Rochefort, as sometimes Richelieu would call him in his mind, so devoted, so _willing_ to please. The Captain wouldn't admit it, of course, not even if he was tortured in the cruelest of ways, but his devotion and hidden adoration knew _no_ boundaries - Richelieu could almost see the Captain, sprawled beneath him, begging to be fucked...

                The Cardinal shook his head as if the thought was a nasty fly that bothered him. Richelieu had taken to bed his fair share of both sexes, but Rochefort was a first, a person who actually had a purely romantic interest in the Cardinal. Richelieu wasn't exactly sure how to deal with that: love was weakness, but Rochefort was a good and trusted spy, if not the best, notwithstanding the occasional failure.

                Richelieu fixed his eyes on Rochefort and the Captain boldly returned the stare. How hard it was to believe that this man, excellent fighter and seasoned spy, would moan, and beg, and writhe under the intimate ministrations of another man? Sounded like a slander at first thought. Richelieu curved his lips in a charming smile he kept for very, very special occasions.

                "How do you feel about Rheims, Rochefort?"

                "Your Eminence?" Rochefort nodded slightly, giving his usual rhetorical question whenever he was not sure he fully understood what he was being asked; never showing even the slightest of confusion or asking for the question to be repeated.

                "Let us visit old friends, Rochefort." Richelieu laughed, because he was feeling adventurous and because he liked to think that Rochefort loved to see him laughing and smiling.

*      *      *

                His plan was simple, really, so simple it would never occur to anyone that it was a plan devised by Cardinal Richelieu. He would travel alone with Rochefort to Rheims, both of them dressed like Benedictine monks, Rochefort wearing bandage over his eye for reasons they were to come up with on the spot if asked. Bad horses, almost no money, they were people of the cloth - who would rob them? Richelieu instructed Rochefort to do something with his hair and then sent him away to arrange for their travel.

                He watched amused as the Captain nodded curtly and took his leave. For the untrained eye he was just as unruffled as ever, but Richelieu had taken his time with studying his Captain and now noticed the tell-tale signs of his annoyance - the arms, stiff and distanced from the torso; the legs, taking steps more sweeping than usual; the head tilted forwards instead of the usual chin up. He felt an odd satisfaction from upsetting his Captain. Push was going to get to shove on their little journey, the Cardinal thought.

                They managed to dress in their new outfits and to “escape” the castle without anyone noticing them; and Richelieu was immensely glad because he was not feeling like answering odd questions. He imagined Rochefort felt the same about it.

The babel of Paris slowly grew deaf behind their backs as they advanced on the way to Rheims. Soon enough they were engulfed by the silence of the country road. They traveled mostly in silence, save for the occasional humming on the side of the Cardinal.

                The horses were far from even remotely average, as intended for their purposes, but they managed to keep a decent speed; Richelieu hoped that they would need to find an inn after at least ten miles. Rochefort was with his hood on. Richelieu had made or rather _forced_ him to braid his hair but the Captain was far from pleased; covering it seemed the only option for him. The Cardinal felt the tiniest bit of disappointment, as he actually liked Rochefort with braided hair. As with most situations, even as daring as this one, Rochefort felt surprised, or displeased, or both, or the extremities of both at once, but his duty towards the Cardinal was put above everything, so he was silent and sulking, but not as much as to attract the attention. The secret entertainment Richelieu derived from his companion’s behavior was enough to compensate for the disappointment of the hidden braid.

                Richelieu admitted to himself that, also, Rochefort with a hood over his head was quite a handsome view. A few unruly bangs were flying in the air and the little braid, if one looked closely, was actually poking from beneath the hood, gently resting on the arch where Rochefort’s neck glided into his shoulder. He received a weird stare from Rochefort for that braid, but it was necessary, it was either that or to cut it short; and he doubted vain vain Rochefort would allow for that to happen. The Cardinal turned his face aside, unable to suppress his smirk.

                They had traveled little over ten miles when Rochefort spotted a faint orange glow in the distance. They spurred the horses and soon arrived at a snug little inn with flowerbeds under the windows. Richelieu couldn't help but admire the rustic appeal. The warm light of candles made his eyes squint for a few seconds after a few hours of traveling in the growing darkness. The inn was as tiny on the inside, tables and chairs spread around in no apparent order, with the bar in the far end. The smell of cheap candles and freshly cooked stew filled his nose; his body quickly started warming up in the stuffy room. The wooden floor creaked under his steps.

                "Try to appear humble." he whispered to Rochefort. He put on his most brilliant smile whilst heading for whom he presumed to be the innkeeper. "Good evening! We were hoping you could shelter us for the night?"

                The innkeeper, huge man with impressive arms and even more impressive belly, the latter speaking volumes of the cooking of his wife, stopped toying with the wooden cup on the bar and gave them a prolonged suspicious look.

                "What 'appen' to 'is eye?" he pointed with his chin to Rochefort, who returned a blank stare.

                "He lost it in an accident I'm afraid, bless the Lord for retaining at least his life." Richelieu meekly supplied, feeling the pang of nervousness on the inside. He didn’t like being asked questions.

                "Ye look far too groom’ to be mer' monks, ya kno'," the innkeeper insisted. His fingers aggressively grabbed at the cup. "'ow do I kno' ye not dress' bandits?"

                "Oh, I completely understand the source of your worry!" Richelieu nodded gravely. "Do let us introduce ourselves. We were sent on a holy mission by the Archbishop of Rheims and are now returning. Here, we can even pay you in advance!" he quibbled, waving at the small pouch hanging on his waist.

                "The Archbisho’ of Rheims?" the innkeeper's eyes went wide. "Well, ye should've start' with this. Every brother of ‘is is a welcom’ guest o' mine!" he reached over the bar and kissed both Richelieu and Rochefort's right hands. Richelieu didn't miss the split second of confusion on Rochefort's face - he was probably used to be the one doing the kissing of hands.

                Attentively as he could the Cardinal listened to the excited chatter of the innkeeper, who was going on and on about "that great man, may God bless his life with ‘ealth and ‘appiness!” It turned out however, that if they wanted to share a room (Rochefort had insisted on this for matters of security) one of them had to take the floor as there were no rooms with two beds. Rochefort then, in a moment of brilliance, solved the problem with his expressed desire to actually sleep on the floor, which would have been quite in harmony with his vows of abstinence. The innkeeper took a lamp and led the way.

                Their room was neat, yet very small, and they constantly touched each other while trying to shuffle about. Richelieu invited Rochefort to say prayers with him and the Captain agreed. They knelt before the low bed and clasped hands, first Richelieu and then Rochefort, the latter trying his best to mimic as closely as he could. Richelieu chanted on, and Rochefort mumbled closely after.

                "I can offer you perhaps the sheet and coverlet?" the Cardinal tugged at the two pieces after they were done. "Even here nights are warm enough to render them useless, I think, and as stern as you vows may be, I think you could use the luxury of something between you and the bare floor." he teased.

                "The generosity of Your Eminence is endless." Rochefort bowed his head. From any other person it would’ve sounded mocking and waspish, but his words rang true. The Captain took the offered sheet and coverlet. He held onto the Cardinal's hand just a second more and kissed it. Richelieu suppressed a shiver - that gesture, so ordinary, such a manner of basic etiquette, Rochefort did it with such passion it was giving the Cardinal feelings he did not fully understand, a low turmoil in his abdomen. He wished good night and lied in the bed, praying for sleep to grace him soon.

                He heard creaking and his eyes flew open. He realised he had been asleep and the noise was what had woken him up. Next thing he felt was the cold running its fingers all over his body, making him shiver. _So, small rustic inns_ did _make a difference_ , he thought. Maybe it was the forest that started right in front of the back yard and which he saw peeking through their small window when they had entered the room. Richelieu turned his head to see Rochefort tossing and turning on the floor. His cassock was thrown aside, which left him in just his undershirt. It was bunched and revealed a good deal of his thighs. Ice-cold light illuminated the skin of his legs, covered in goose bumps. Richelieu closed his eyes and turned his head the other way.

                "What time is it?" he asked in a low voice, as heavy as his lids with sleep.

                "Hour or so before the third cock-crow, I'm guessing. Did I wake you up, Your Eminence?" Rochefort's hushed voice responded.

                "Worry not. We need to be on our way soon, anyway." Richelieu breathed in and out a few times. It was damn cold. "Listen, come share this nuptial bed, I somehow doubt the floor will pity you and get more comfortable." he turned his head to the side and opened his eyes to see Rochefort sitting upright and looking at him. His expression was unreadable, even more so in the cold light chiseling his features, but he nodded and rose to get on the bed.

                Richelieu turned on his side completely and pressed his back to the wall to free as much space as he could. Rochefort was a tall and burly man whose body did require space (when his ego, the size of half the king's palace, didn't sweep the place for him in advance) and all of a sudden Richelieu remembered his intention to make push into shove, or, in this case, pull into drag. When Rochefort lied on his side with his back turned to the Cardinal, half his body on the edge and the other half hanging from it, Richelieu snaked his hand around the man's waist, held him tight and pulled him closer.

                "Come on." he whispered, and was surprised by the ring of impatience in his voice.

                Rochefort readily obeyed and allowed himself to be pulled in. His backside pressed firmly against Richelieu's chest (was that man cast in iron, the Cardinal mused amazed) and, incidentally or not, his ass rubbed against Richelieu’s crotch. They sighed almost simultaneously; Richelieu leaned his forehead against the nape of Rochefort’s neck.

                A tiny voice protested against this, said it was illogical, said it would have undesired consequences, but he shushed it, reassuring himself all was for the greater good. But a middle ground was undesirable: Rochefort was to either be pushed to hit utmost limit or give up and resign his position as a Captain (consequently as the Cardinal’s personal spy). The second option of course left the Cardinal with little choice but to kill him - in an “accident”, of course.

The heat of arousal washed his body with the warmth of his rushing blood; he felt it engorging his cock. He pressed harder against Rochefort’s ass.

                The Captain gasped, but did not move away.

                Richelieu gently lifted Rochefort's undershirt and slid his hand beneath it, his touch ghosting over the Captain's skin. The Cardinal fanned his fingers and ran them over Rochefort's abdomen; the sensitive tips fondled the down and discovered scars below the navel, threaded scrapes of skirmishes probably long forgotten. Rochefort shifted his hips but did not protest; and so Richelieu's fingers explored the skin in little circling motions, going down and down, until the down thickened and his middle finger touched upon flesh thick and roused. Richelieu spread his index and middle fingers as much as he could, and slid them on both sides of Rochefort's cock. He made a scissoring motion, giving it a light squeeze. Rochefort exhaled loudly and shifted again, trying to push into the Cardinal’s hand. His own hand trailed back and Richelieu felt it on his hip, bunching and pulling at the fabric of the cassock and the undershirt beneath it.

                Richelieu smiled and raised his hips; allowed Rochefort to pull up his clothes. The Cardinal expected for the Captain to get even bolder, perhaps grab at his cock, but instead the man placed his palm on the Cardinal’s hip, gently squeezed and caressed it, pulled at it to make the whole body move. Richelieu obeyed the direction of the motion and pressed his hard cock into Rochefort's ass. A very quiet moan escaped Rochefort's mouth; Richelieu fell in love with it, decided he wanted to hear more. His hand, up to now just teasing, grabbed Rochefort's cock and gave it a nearly harsh tug; immense satisfaction rushed through his body when the organ in his hand hardened even more, and Rochefort nearly whined, rocking his hips back and forth, begging for more.

                "Shhh, remember your vows." Richelieu teased but his hand still indulged the other man. He placed small, fluttering kisses on Rochefort's back, shushed and soothed him, even if it was practically the undershirt that he was kissing. Rochefort could barely contain himself - his body was tense like a cord and vibrated acutely to Richelieu's ministrations; his hips were rocking and trembling, which, aside from just how hard his cock was, was the most obvious sign that he was about to come.

                Third cock-crow echoed in the air outside. Richelieu, who was about to let go of Rochefort anyway, laughed softly at the irony. He released the Captain's cock, swiftly jumped over him and out of the bed; pulled down his undershirt and cassock, palming at the creases of the rough cloth. He forced a smile on his face, pretending to ignore the emotions twisting Rochefort's face - arousal and delight, but also shock, and confusion, and a dose of hurt.

                "Sleeping late is a sin; we must be on our way." Richelieu announced. "I'll prepare our noble steeds." He headed for the door, denying Rochefort the opportunity to even protest. He pressed the door handle and then stopped, dawned on by a sudden idea. “If you touch yourself,” he started with a low voice, void of any emotion, making the threat all the more real. “I will not even lay my eyes on you anymore.” He left the room, banging the door behind his back, and stormed off, before he could give in to the temptation of turning and seeing Rochefort’s expression. It was overly dramatic a gesture of him, he realized, and to look back at Rochefort would have been overdoing it. To top it all, he wasn’t really sure he wanted to see Rochefort’s expression of arousal when they were about to ride all day instead of have sex.

                He tried to think of unpleasant things, painful things, disgusting things, in order to ease his own aching erection. It somehow eluded him though, as Rochefort’s moans of delight still rang clear in his ears.

               

*      *      *

                They rode in silence. Rochefort was as aloof and courteous as ever, showing no sign that something had happened between them in the morning. He answered curtly when prompted a question, and bowed lightly when the Cardinal showed with a gesture or a word that their conversation was over. Richelieu was pleased with this, as it somehow went according to plan, as much as a plan was still not clearly formed in his mind at this point. Rochefort took only what he was given, no more, no less, and was seemingly content. Richelieu had no reason to be displeased with his Captain; but somewhere deep inside he had to admit he wanted to hear Rochefort moan and beg, all night, every night.

                He felt his body reacting to the thought and forced himself to think of other things.

                But as they were arranging their stay at the next inn (they had covered fifty miles that day, and it was the second and last inn for them to stay at) the Cardinal felt the heat rising in his body again; the echo of Rochefort’s moans rang between his ears and made him light-headed. Deep inside he was terrified of himself, of the way his carnal desires were taking over the best of him. _But_ , he argued with himself, _why not, why not indulge this once_? The situation was of such delicacy that, no matter what he did, or did not, Rochefort would be the one to suffer all the consequences.

                _He is a toy, Armand_ , Richelieu reminded himself as he shoved Rochefort against the wall and breathed heavily against his neck, nipping with his teeth at the delicate skin beneath the ear, _a toy that you use however you deem fit._

                "Suck me." he demanded, putting in enormous effort into sounding authoritative, rather than the desperate and aroused mess he had become in under a minute.

                Rochefort nodded curtly and swiftly proceeded to take off their cassocks as they stumbled backwards to one of the beds (there were two this time, surprisingly enough). He leaned in to capture the Cardinal's lips with his own, or so Richelieu thought, so he demonstratively backed his head away, and instead grabbed hold of Rochefort's hair and forced him down. They fell back, not very gracefully, on the bed, and Rochefort pulled up the Cardinal's undershirt to reveal his already hard cock.

                Rochefort licked his lips, his tongue leaving copious amounts of saliva on its run, leaving lips fleshy and glistening. He dipped his head; let a sloppy kiss on the tip of Richelieu's cock, then slid his lips agonizingly slow down the head and shaft. Hollowing his cheeks, he sucked gently, sending a shiver through Richelieu’s body. The Cardinal gasped in delight.

                He watched, nearly overwhelmed by the combined effect of sight and feel of Rochefort sucking him off. The ministrations of his slick tongue were slow, yet it was taking him mere minutes to pinpoint every weak point of Richelieu, every little flick of the tongue at the right place, every sharp tooth nipping just the right way. The Captain gently scraped the skin with his teeth, pulling it gently up or down, and it made Richelieu bite his bottom lip to the point of actually drawing blood, just to suppress his moans. The Cardinal ran his fingers through Rochefort's hair, minding the braid (which was very disheveled now, compared to when they started their little journey - and Richelieu had the sudden, unexplainable urge to re-braid it all by himself in the morning) and rested his hand on the crown of Rochefort’s head, pushing the slightest when the Captain's head was bobbing down, or pulling gently at the strands of hair when the pleasure was peaking.

                Rochefort slowly slid his lips up the shaft to the tip where he rested his lips. Saliva oozed down Richelieu’s cock. The Captain paused at the tip, kissing it gently, sucking at it with his lips so that the sensitive flesh pressed against his front teeth. The Cardinal was taken by surprise: his hips trembled violently, he was at the point of spilling, a lewd cry escaped his lips. His hand fisted in Rochefort's hair, the need to come completely wiping the desire to prolong the pleasure.

                The Captain paused again, inhaling and exhaling slowly, after which his head dipped. Richelieu felt as if the head of his cock had breached some kind of barrier, and then the slick, tight heat around it became impossible to bear. He was on the edge; desperately and mindlessly he bucked his hips in his desire for friction, for movement of any kind, and Rochefort immediately obliged him, dipping his head further down, taking the whole length in his mouth, his nose touching the hairs on Richelieu's abdomen. And then he started humming: a low, constant vibration which was ultimately the undoing of Richelieu.

                His body stiffened and he felt the pooling pleasure spill over him; his cock throbbed, wave after wave, aided by the vibrating throat of Rochefort. He could feel, against all odds, his toes curl in pure ecstasy, as what breath he had in his lungs left his body in the form of a tattered, low moan. He nearly cried, saved by the fact that his lungs were empty and spent, just like the rest of his body.

                He was basking in the afterglow, unusually long this one (or perhaps it has been a while since he last...) when Rochefort slowly pulled back. Richelieu watched him with some uncanny pleasure how the thin lips dragged themselves over his length, leaving glistening thick trails of saliva behind. It threaded between them and the tip of Rochefort's cock, and it was then that their gazes met.

                Rochefort's eye, that precious almond, was big and black like a demon’s, pupil impossible to tell apart from iris, and the wild want, and the burning lust behind it was so endless, so engulfing that Richelieu found himself overwhelmed. He hadn't seen a man want something with such passion, with such basic desire to own. For a moment he was tempted to submit to it, to give himself; but then his own desires and purposes raged like a whiplash. Why submit when he could hold it down, leash it, use it to his purposes? Rochefort was a thunderstorm in a gem, ready to be released upon the poor souls standing in Richelieu's way; Rochefort was fire, and ego, and heavy rain, contained and meek when in Richelieu's hands. The mere thought made Richelieu's head swim, drunken with the power at his feet.

                He bunched Rochefort's shirt in his fist and pulled him on the bed, assaulting his neck with kisses and teeth, his hand palming the Captain. Rochefort groaned with pleasure and readily slithered into the bed, trapping Richelieu between himself and the wall. The Cardinal closed his eyes and rested his head on the pillow beneath it, overwhelmed by the heat and Rochefort's natural scent, musky from the sweating, with scant remnants of his perfume. He hadn't noticed it in the morning but now it seemed to fill his nose and he didn't mind, didn't mind at all...

                He heard a cock-crow and snapped his eyes open in confusion.

Cold light was streaming through the small window, outlining its form on the wooden floor. The Cardinal's body was however warm, safely tucked beneath a sheet. Rochefort's body was lying on the other bed, his back turned to the Cardinal, slowly heaving, lulled by the peace of sleep. His sheet was twisted and bunched around his legs; an emergency would probably send him down flying in a most comic manner.

                Richelieu let his head flop back on the pillow. _I must be getting old_ , he thought, _falling asleep just like that, poor Rochefort probably felt like an abused housewife_.

                The Cardinal allowed himself an ungraceful snort of amusement. It was almost touching, but at the same time not very surprising; typical Rochefort, performing his duty and then retreating, waiting for orders. The image of Rochefort, wrapped protectively around Richelieu’s body slowly surfaced in his mind; he could almost feel the weight of strong arms over his own, the long fingers, brought together into a palm and put beneath his belly, the barely shifting iron muscles pressed against his back, the warm breath tickling the fine hair on his neck...

                Richelieu curtly shook his head, trying to get rid of the feeling.

                Something akin to fear bled through his body. He was starting to lose himself in his own little play, becoming game instead of hunter. Maybe the best thing after all _was_ to remove Rochefort from himself before things could get complicated. Dispose of him, or let others dispose of him, and let the Cardinal swim in the pure bliss of ignorance.

                He remembered Rochefort’s face from last night.

He couldn't possibly lose his best agent. Rochefort had his good and not so good moments, but he was quick, practical and efficient. He was also a mystery, even to Richelieu, the Cardinal who was such a fine puppeteer of others. His fingers flexed into a fist, continued to flex so hard it made them tremble. _This is only temporary_ , he reassured himself, _because we're spending some intimate time together_.

                "This is only temporary. It will pass." he whispered, desperate to hear it out loud, to taste the words and believe their message.

                "Your Eminence?" Rochefort's half-alerted voice came from the other bed.

                Richelieu inhaled, exhaled slowly.

                "Yes. We need to be on our way. If your Lady Luck is with us we will reach Rheims a little after sunset."

*      *      *

                "Do reveal the crescent moons that are your cheekbones to the night." Richelieu teased Rochefort when they neared the door of the palace. Reluctant but obedient, the Captain did as he was told. His braid - which Richelieu redid in the morning just to amuse himself - snaked like a viper on his shoulder. "If he's keeping the same suspicious boy..." Richelieu sighed and knocked on the door, once, twice, third time just to make it right.

                There was silence for a few seconds, then hurried steps approached. The huge door creaked and the displeased face of a young man peeked from the orange crevice that had just opened.

                "It's late and the Archbishop..." the man began with a tone more displeased than his face, which Richelieu counted as a national achievement.

                "And he's reading, as he does as per usual before going to bed. Now go fetch him, tell him Armand is visiting." Richelieu interrupted with his tone that brooked no contradictions.

                Presented with such an intimate detail, their bristled host wavered. He gave them a quick final scowl and closed the door shut in a most ostentatious manner; they heard his steps fading into the building, certainly not in such a hurry as they were when he was getting the door.

                "Gabriel and I call each other by our Christian names." Richelieu admitted after a second too long spent in silence. A long-forgotten anticipation was bubbling inside of him, now that he was going to see Gifford again. He felt _chatty_. "It's been a while, to hear my own name, even if it comes from my mouth." he mused further.

                Rochefort's eye fixed on him, followed slowly by the rest of his head. Richelieu, usually so used to his own monologues of orders, or at best one-line responses provided by Rochefort in answer to his questions, now felt uncanny, slightly peeved by the attention, and also weirdly compelled to continue since Rochefort was listening with such attention, nearly drinking every word with reverence.

                "When we first met Gabriel insisted that I call him by his Christian name. As I am sure you reread the Bible every night and there’s no need for me to remind you, he shares a name with an angel and as it was so I found it amusing, but also oddly fitting. Back then it was only out of courtesy that I asked him to return the gesture. It was delightful and a bit daring, very intimate, yet pure and... nice, I guess, for the lack of better word. He is still the only one to call me by my Christian name. It's not a bad name when you think of it, is it?" he tried to steer his soliloquy into a dialogue.

                "It is a meritorious name." Rochefort nodded and crossed his hands on his chest. His eye drifted somewhere over the patterns of the wooden door. "It reminds one of a heavy rapier, or a sleek ship ready to take on the ocean."

                " _Your gift_ with words is meritorious." Richelieu grinned, amused. "Write me a sonnet to seduce me. I should consider entitling you to write responses for my private correspondence..." he laughed and then suddenly stopped, pecked by a sudden urge of curiosity. "What is actually _your_ Christian name, Rochefort?"

                "ARMAND!" a deep fruity voice bounced into their conversation and the next thing Richelieu knew he was engulfed in tight warmth and softness, its fingers gently delving into his back. The pungent smell of very cheap candles and old paper infiltrated his nose and filled his mind with the thought of Gabriel. Warmth surged through him and he clutched back, hiding a huge, stupid smile in the cassock of the other man.

                "Armand, _Armand_ , God bless you, dear Armand!" Gifford was going on, the same over-excited child Richelieu remembered from all their previous encounters. "God bless, I did receive your letter but did not expect you so soon! Surely you wore out the horses _again_ , poor souls, we will nurture them back to health here..."

                "It is good to see you, too, Gabriel." Richelieu managed, his face still buried in Gifford's cloth, so his voice came out muffled and softened. "I see time has been nothing but benevolent to you."

                "God bless, God bless!" Gabriel patted Richelieu on his back, urging him to go inside. He then held his hand out to Rochefort, who in turn, most probably forced by habit, reached to take the Archbishop's hand to kiss it, but Gifford had no patience for ceremoniousness; thus their little group ended up with Gabriel holding Rochefort's hand and dragging him inside, followed by the amused and heart-warmed Richelieu. The door was closed by the Embodiment of suspicion, as the Cardinal referred to the servant, who went out to take care of the horses.

                They sat in the kitchen. Richelieu's heart was swelling with joy, but also peace of mind, while his nose was overwhelmed by the spices; every sharper inhale tickled him, made his eyes squint with the promise of a sneeze. He tried not to look at Rochefort, who, despite his excellent training and years of experience, seemed like a dog in an unfamiliar place. Another person would probably miss it, but not Richelieu, who knew by heart the degrees of his Captain's stiffness of posture. The Cardinal grinned again.

                Richelieu moved his gaze from Rochefort to Gabriel. Indeed, time has been most merciful to the Archbishop. His face was beginning to wrinkle, and the candlelight probably only deepened the crevices, but his eyes, the skin around them now marked by crowfeet, were the same eyes of an excited, innocent boy Richelieu knew from so many years ago. His hair was shorter, diligently combed, and the figure a bit plumper compared to when they saw each other for the last time, but apart from that, there was no difference, at least not a turn for the worse. And his character, well, still the same angel incarnate. "God bless" seemed like it was an integral part of his speech now; yet it did not annoy or raise feelings of disquiet on the fact that probably he was using God's name in vain. Hell, if there was one person on this Earth who was worth of God listening to them, well that was Gabriel Gifford.

                "God bless, I hope you don't mind our homely situation here, Armand." Gabriel was ranting on whilst cutting some apples. "You must be used to luxury in the court palace. God bless!"

                "Must not the servant of God be the first one to deny the comforts of the Devil?" Richelieu answered, toying with his knife. "One might consider I live in sin, being a Cardinal and meddling with politics."

                Gifford stopped for a second to give him a most amazed look of disbelief, although the smile was still lingering on his lips.

                "You? God bless, that's impossible to believe. Everyone knows you're the king's, God bless him, right hand, and I know for sure that the Good Samaritan can't be a sinful Samaritan. God bless! Besides, aren't we but people, is it wrong for us to like the beautiful and seek the comfortable?"

                "Many would argue, actually, that yes, it is wrong." Richelieu teased.

                "To them I say, each to his own! God bless, there's not much sense in giving away all of your possessions if your children are going to starve, is there? Poor children, God bless!" he bewailed.

                "They are only hypothetical children, Gabriel, calm thyself." Richelieu burst in laughter.

                They quickly said prayer (Gabriel and Richelieu chanting, Rochefort and the Distressed one mumbling closely behind) and sat down to eat (dinner was just warmed up stew, but the wine was lovely, served with the seasonal fruits). Eating, however, did not impede the flow of their conversation even one bit. In fact, Richelieu found it hard to actually take a second to shove some food in his mouth: Gifford's nickname might have been The Preacher, but those who dared engage him in a conversation knew he was equally skilled at maintaining a dialogue and being an even better listener than preacher. Richelieu gave him an account of their journey, naturally omitting the moments of shared intimacy in the inns. Gifford took great interest in Rochefort, which made the latter rather obviously uncomfortable with the sudden change of topic and its pointing to his persona.

                "So why haven't I heard of you, my dear?" Gifford asked, shaking warmly the Captain's hand.

                "You're not really supposed to have, angel." Richelieu warned gently, giving their host a meaningful look whilst sipping wine.

                Gabriel offered him a confused smile, but then his eyes and mouth rounded with the realisation dawning on him.

                "Oh! God bless, forgive my inquisitiveness into such private business. God bless you, child, God bless."

                "Thank you." Rochefort mumbled, shocked and uncomfortable with the positive attention given to him.

                Richelieu decided to spare him and attracted Gabriel's attention to other matters. He felt his cheeks going rosy when he caught a most thankful gaze from Rochefort.

                When they finished dining Gifford took them to their rooms (adjacent by Rochefort’s request, and Gabriel had just nodded solemnly and had blessed him) and bid them good night.

                "Rest now, and we will take care of everything tomorrow, God bless!" he had laughed and let them nod to each other instead of wishing good night and go to their separate rooms.

                Richelieu gladly stripped off the crude cassock and nearly threw himself on the bed. It was simple, yet so much better than the ones in the inns. He shifted a few times, changing his position until he found the best spot and slowly closed his eyes. The palace was cool, much like the inns at night, yet a man could easily sleep in his undershirt or pants and get away with it. He wasn't _that_ old to get a cold from a night in his underwear.

                He expected sleep would take him soon after a day of such intense riding and a dinner so rich, yet his eyelids refused to keep shut and his body was constantly somewhat displeased with its pose, he was like a dog turning numerous times before finally lying down. He couldn't understand what was wrong - they were safe and sound, good food, separate rooms...

                It dawned upon him that for the first time in two nights, he was sleeping alone. Given that was the usual case and he had spent only two nights in sharing, he could not possibly fathom _why_ on Earth he would so acutely miss Rochefort's presence. Richelieu felt just as secure, no matter if he was sleeping in his bed, protected by his guards in front of the door, or when on a trip in a carriage, followed by Rochefort on a horse; so why miss him now?

                The Cardinal inhaled deeply, but there was only the smell of old rocks and that of summer grass, entering from the opened window. He tried to imagine the smell of Rochefort in the night, sweaty and aroused. His loins immediately tightened with desire and he palmed himself absent-mindedly, but it only fueled what was up to now only lingering.

                Richelieu remembered that he had told Rochefort not, on any occasion, to touch himself, and grinned. He decided to check upon his trusted spy and see just how much he was following orders.

                He jumped out of bed and, after a second of hesitation, sneaked barefoot to the door. It creaked, traitorously, so he took his time opening it enough to slide in the crack, and then closing it again. As slow as his impatience would allow him, he sneaked to Rochefort’s door. Already learned from his experience with his own door, he slowly pressed the handle down, until it clicked in protest against the mechanism. He then pushed slowly in, revealing more and more space for him to sneak in.

                He slid his arm in. The next thing he knew, a sharp tug hurled him in, he was stormed into the room and then was pressed hard against the cold stone wall, his arms spread and held fast above his head. His gaze met Rochefort's eye, which flashed from aggressive determination to mild arousal and then to utter shock in less than a second. The next moment the Captain was kneeling and kissing Richelieu's hand, apologising.

                "Your skills are worthy of praise, I must admit." Richelieu smirked at Rochefort, who dared return his gaze, but was not yet letting go of his hand. "When did you notice?"

                "I heard the door. I was, in fact, on my way to check on Your Eminence."

                "Well, being the nice person I am, I saved you the effort of visiting my room. It will be no end near ungrateful of you to not check on me now while I'm still here..." Richelieu teased.

                He gently took his hand out of Rochefort's and caressed his cheek, quickly dimming the confusion in Rochefort's gaze into unhidden delight. The Captain batted his uncovered eyelid (Richelieu noticed he was still wearing his bandage over the other) and leaned into the touch, exhaling rather audibly.

                Richelieu was amazed by such an open display of vulnerability by no other that Rochefort himself, especially given what Richelieu had put him through in the past few days and nights. And he, Richelieu, was the one to initiate it, to take it out, a naked fact, unprotected by walls of stony features or even voices. It was all for him to see and take if he pleased. Was he not witnessing it with his very eyes right now he would have laugh even at the thought of Rochefort having a vulnerable side to him. Well, except the fact that the man had an actual romantic interest in the Cardinal which was a thing baffling enough on its own.

                But then he remembered the lust, and the want, and the readiness of Rochefort to take and to conquer; and the thought alone made his head spin, made his heart pump desire in his blood. He buried his fingers in Rochefort's hair and fisted the strands.

                "I want to fuck you." he groaned, and could not recognize his own voice.

                Even if he could watch it a million times, he would never be able to tell what exactly changed in Rochefort's face that altered him. Yet the change was there, and his gaze was fixed on the Cardinal’s eyes, his expression more lusting and animalistic than the night before, more wanting than ever. This is what he wanted, Richelieu realised, the animal he himself invoked, the personal, intimate challenge to his authority.

                Desire surged to his body like flames engulfing paper.

                "I want to fuck you so hard." he rasped, barely able to talk.

                He thought about the bed, but it was too far away. Richelieu threw Rochefort on the ground and hurried to straddle him. His back arched and he attacked the Captain’s bared throat with his lips. He licked at the sweaty skin, kissing and biting. The flesh beneath his teeth vibrated with Rochefort's lustful groan. Their hands were immediately at each other’s bodies, gripping, caressing, exploring, tugging with violence at the clothes. Rochefort's shirt ripped open and they quickly disposed of it, leaving the Captain completely naked, lying on his back on the floor. Richelieu could feel the Captain's cock, hard and nudging against his bare ass. He slowly rocked his hips back and forth, stroking it. The feeling of skin against skin sent electricity up his body but also made Rochefort's cock throb with arousal, pumping in more blood. He grinned.

                "Have you touched yourself, Rochefort?" he asked lazily, tracing the thin path of down from his chest to the navel with his fingers.

                "No!" Rochefort cried in earnest, yet not breaking eye contact. Richelieu believed him; he knew when Rochefort was trying to lie.

                "Your devotion will be the death of you." Richelieu laughed cruelly.

                The Cardinal stood up and backed away to change his position. He took off his undershirt and brought his legs together and kneeled between Rochefort’s legs. Richelieu ran his palms over the Captain's thighs, took his knees in his hands and leaned them against his chest and shoulders (Rochefort’s long legs were so magnificent, he thought somewhat absent-mindedly). He started thinking of all the great desserts he loved, the chocolate with hazelnuts, or the iced cream, in order to make his mouth salivate quicker, and more. It worked like a charm, and he spat generously in his hand. He brought it to his cock and pumped leisurely: the sight of Rochefort naked, lying on his back, rock-hard and waiting to be fucked had made his cock hard enough and throbbing in anticipation; all he needed was the lubrication. He spat a few more times; the last saliva he spread around and over Rochefort's hole, which puckered and sucked in his teasing fingers.

                Richelieu leaned in and reached for Rochefort’s hips. Rochefort helpfully raised them into the air, nudging at Richelieu's cock.

                The Cardinal positioned his cock against Rochefort’s hole and very slowly pushed in, the tip first, then the head, pushing in, barely restraining himself from ramming inside. Rochefort was writhing and moaning beneath him, his breath was rasping and heavy; Richelieu could feel the Captain’s arousal mixed with the discomfort of the foreign body, but Rochefort's ass was taking him in, encompassing him in tight, pulsing, wonderful heat which erased everything else from his conscious mind. Richelieu couldn't help a gasp when the last inch sheathed in. He leaned over Rochefort, propping himself on his hands. The Captain bent his knees, then slid his long legs at the sides of Richelieu, grasping tight at his waist. The movement pushed the Cardinal's dick only deeper and they both moaned, albeit Rochefort’s delight was a bit strained.

                "Have you ever imagined I’d make slow, sensual love to you?" Richelieu sneered, giving another push. Rochefort moaned in response. "Your getting hurt is your own fault."

                "Yes." Rochefort moaned again, but Richelieu suspected that nothing he said would really stick into the Captain's head, as his ass being filled and fucked was just about enough fulfillment for him to take without breaking.

                Richelieu, against his own word, started fucking him slow, agonizingly slow, and Rochefort moaned and writhed beneath him. His legs twitched and squeezed at Richelieu’s waist. Richelieu, in the back of his mind, hoped that Gabriel won't hear them, and if he did then he would bless them and turn a deaf ear to it, probably even praising God for the love between people.

He realized he wasn't so sure anymore what he actually felt towards Rochefort, only that he felt so good when Rochefort was close.

                The Captain moaned and bared his neck beneath him, practically offering himself.

                It felt good in many different ways, especially this close.

                Rochefort's thighs started trembling around his waist but this time Richelieu wasn’t going to stop. With renewed vigour, he hammered in as hard as he could, promptly ignoring the quickly rising irritation of his muscles. Rochefort’s jaw clenched visibly and in a few moments he came hard, spilling the pent up desire and arousal he was holding back for the last two days, making a complete, white and sticky, mess of himself. Richelieu fucked him through it; the lovely sight, alongside with the heightened pace and Rochefort’s spasming ass coaxed him into his own orgasm. His body locked in place and shivered; despite that he had come only the previous night, the tidal waves washed him away as he came, emptying himself into Rochefort, being squeezed out of every last drop. He felt submerged into the pleasure and his cock was throbbing so hard it nearly hurt, but that was all, that was it, he wanted to stay forever like this; a prolonged, a bit high-pitched moan escaped his lips and he didn’t care who heard him or not, he just cared about being impossibly deep into Rochefort and coming inside of him. The thought made the peak last even longer than he remembered from previous occasions he had had sex.

                His head nodded heavily and it was a miracle the force of it didn’t break his neck. For a while the only thing surrounding them was the heavy breathing, the gasps and the groans of their afterglow.

                "Does this not hurt your fluttering heart, the fact that I'm using you for pleasure of a very sodomitic nature?" Richelieu asked when he regained his ability to speak again.

                "It is my duty to serve... and please Your Eminence."

                "This does not answer my question." Richelieu insisted.

                "Hope always hurts."

                Richelieu stared at the Captain.

                They had sex until dawn.

                Richelieu fucked Rochefort on the floor again; he fucked him over the solid desk made of cherry wood; and when they were completely spent they went to bed and Richelieu lied atop of Rochefort and lavished his neck in kisses and bites while his hands roamed the man’s body, otherwise tall and proud, now mild and meek, limp and spent.

*      *      *

                Early in the morning a courier with a carriage brought clothes and other things Richelieu had requested. Richelieu used his time to put his hair and beard back in order. He also put on his cardinal robes, which he was going to wear from now on, during the formal reception of Cardinal Richelieu by the Archbishop of Rheims. Rochefort, aside from his usual outfits wore his eye-patch again but, Richelieu noticed, retained his hair braided. It _did_ look nice on him.

                The plan, naturally, went smoothly and was completely successful, just everything Richelieu wanted – and planned – it to be. The nobility of his gesture was more than greatly received. Gabriel was nowhere near end happy and Richelieu even got his hands on two more rare books he was for some time now looking for.

During the day he went around in a carriage, visiting places, blessing whatever they shoved at his hands, exercising his duties as a Cardinal. The nights he spent in Rochefort’s room. The Captain was almost lovely, spreading his legs for Richelieu so readily, on his back, on his knees, on his side, moaning and gasping, sometimes readily taking everything like a good boy, sometimes boldly holding onto Richelieu, and when they were completely spent he would explore the whole of the Cardinal’s body with his fingers. He especially loved the small nips of the rapier, left back when Richelieu had been but a boy taking his first lessons in fencing.

                Three days later they were done and ready to depart. Richelieu took his official farewell with Gabriel, promising to visit more often (God bless!). Being in high spirits, he then turned to Rochefort and invited him to share the carriage on their way back.

                "I'm afraid I have to refuse your most generous offer, Your Eminence." Rochefort curtly nodded holding onto the reins of his horse. "Your safety, as per usual, comes before everything and I want to be on the look-out."

                “Such a devoted man! The Mother Church would have been honored to have you amongst our ranks, Captain Rochefort!” Gabriel beamed, taking Rochefort’s hand and squeezing it.

                “No doubt.” Richelieu forced a smile and turned to enter the carriage.

 _It was an invitation and it was refused_ , he told himself. Rochefort had his perfect reasoning, for which Richelieu was rather thankful – he was a real target, now that he was returning to Paris officially. He could always order Rochefort to travel in the carriage with him, and Rochefort was bound to obey, but that was pointless.

                His trip back was oddly grey and boring. He found himself annoyed at times and he didn't know why.

*      *      *

                A week later he was sitting in his cabinet, about to sign a very important document for Rochefort to take to England. He was to sign it anyway, but he wanted to read it just in case there were some things sneaked in in the last moment, in his absence. Reading, however, proved difficult, nearly impossible. He stopped and started, re-read some paragraphs twice or trice, skipped others and then had to go back and try to read them again. Words often rung wrong or untrue, making him stop and think about them; were they even words, were they French or other.

Rochefort was standing three steps from the desk, stoic and blank as usual. For some reason the man's presence was taking a toll upon Richelieu’s attention and concentration; and the paper was not only crumpled, but also left with smeared ugly sweat marks and fingers, blotted with ink here and there. Richelieu also ruined his favourite pair of gloves but for some reason felt only mild annoyance.

                "Rochefort, I have other urgent business to finish now. Be a dear and visit me this evening in my chambers to take this, will you?" he asked. Rochefort immediately nodded, gave a bow and turned to leave the room.

                His absence only made Richelieu feel worse.

                Just a little over a week ago his worst problem was the summer heat and how it made his work less than the perfect he was used to. Now…

                They hadn’t had sex ever since their departure from Rheims – Richelieu was buried under new, fresher piles of work to do and documents to be written and signed; Rochefort was absent from the palace most of the time, being on duty, and now he was to travel to England, which meant he was going to be absent for weeks on end.

                Richelieu was missing him already.

Something was changed and he feared it was permanent.

*      *      *

                Two knocks on the door announced a guest and Richelieu rushed to greet him. While he did _manage_ to actually get back on track and finish some important work that had been delayed for a week now, he was nervous and jittery ever since Rochefort had left his cabinet earlier that day.

                It was indeed Rochefort, and Richelieu quickly let him in. He closed the door behind his guest, and they awkwardly stood there looking at each other.

                "You have to know that..." Richelieu began and, to his embarrassment, felt a blush creeping up his face, making him feel like he was fifteen and thinking he was in love. "You know who I am. What you know is what you get; I cannot offer more than that. It might not even be a permanent establishment."

                Rochefort elegantly slid his hand from his glove and slowly and gently rested it on the Cardinal's shoulder; his thumb caressed the exposed skin on Richelieu’s neck. The Captain leaned in and whispered a name in Richelieu's ear.

                "What?"

                Their gazes met for a second.

                Rochefort's thin lips tasted like cheap wine and even worse Tarte Tatins. It was the most wonderful taste in the world. They kissed slowly. Richelieu let Rochefort take his head in his ungloved hands.

                "It's a wonderful name." the Cardinal whispered when they broke their first kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? I'm a sucker for happy endings when it comes to MY BABIES.


End file.
